


I Need You

by nutmeag83



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Use, Fix-It, Friendship, Healing, Learning to Stay, Love, M/M, Talking, post tsot, s3 fix-it, they're finally doing it!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 22:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: John gets some worrying texts soon after he comes back from his honeymoon. He finally makes the decision he should have made long ago.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place a few weeks after the wedding. Just a little one-shot I needed to get out of my system while I work on my three (I'm an idiot) longer fics...
> 
> A/N: Penguin facts from here <http://mentalfloss.com/article/56416/20-fun-facts-about-penguins-world-penguin-day> and here <https://spotlightenglish.com/listen/monogamy-mating-for-life>. 
> 
> It's a quickie, so not beta'd or Brit-picked. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The buzz of his phone pulled him from an odd dream, though he lost the threads of it as he awakened. The mobile buzzed again. Mary stirred, but did not wake up. Third buzz. John swiped a hand over his face in hopes of bringing himself to full consciousness. He squinted at the numbers on his phone. Just after midnight. For about two seconds he wondered who was texting him at midnight, his hopeful thought of who he wanted it to be turning to reality when he opened the messaging app. Sherlock. Of course. Who else?

He tamped down the joy and relief that tried to surge through him. It had been almost two weeks since he’d last heard from Sherlock, and John was getting worried. They’d texted and chatted on his blog during his honeymoon, well, until Mary called them out on it and John reluctantly put his phone aside and tried to enjoy the holiday. He’d texted Sherlock a few times on their return to London, but there had been no reply. Thinking Sherlock might be on a case, John had let the silence persist, though the longer it went, the more he worried.

He had been thinking only that evening that he might have to get in touch with Mycroft to make sure Sherlock was okay. And, as if Sherlock had heard his thought, here he was, texting John in the middle of the night. It reminded John of their days as flatmates when Sherlock would excitedly barge into John’s room at three in the morning, chattering on about DNA and blood and perfumes. At the time, it had annoyed the hell out of John, but now he missed it. Feeling nostalgic, he checked his messages, though without a hint of ire at Sherlock for not respecting boundaries.

**Received / 11:48  
** Penguins are only found in the southern hemisphere.

**Received / 11:53  
** Gentoo penguins can swim up to 22 mph.

**Received / 11:55  
** The earliest penguin relative lived 60 million years ago, which means they survived the extinction of dinosaurs.

**Received / 12:01  
** Many penguins mate with the same penguin season after season.

**Received / 12: 02  
** I wonder why. They don’t build homes, they live in large colonies, so you’d think one penguin would do as well as the next. It’s not like penguins have personalities and preferences. Perhaps it’s a pheromone thing. Do penguins have pheromones?

**Received / 12:03  
** Apparently not. They recognize each other by their calls. And they’re monogamous because that’s the best way to care for their children. Like you and Mary. I thought maybe, before, that you two might not last, because the boring married life does not suit you, but now you’re having a baby, so you’ll stay together to keep the baby safe and healthy.

**Received / 12:04  
** Does that mean you’d have stayed with me if we had had a child to care for together? Not that you’d have wanted that. Neither would I. The child I mean. Children are fine. When they’re not around me. But it might have been nice to have a reason for you to move back to Baker Street. Or to keep me from leaving in the first place.

**Received / 12:05  
** I am sorry about that. Terribly sorry. It wrong of me to keep you in the dark, to leave you in the first place. I didn’t want to leave, not at all. But I needed to keep you safe. Does that make you my penguin chick? I just wanted to keep you safe.

John worried the further down he scrolled, catching up with the texts that had apparently started before he’d even woken up. What was going on? This wasn’t like Sherlock at all. Yes, he was rambly and loved to talk about odd facts, but this was… vulnerable. It was the most open John had known him to be, apart from when he was on the roof—

Not thinking about that.

Should he text Sherlock back? He was relieved at hearing from his friend again, but the texts were so odd. Maybe he should phone instead. Even though Sherlock hated calls. He’d start with texts and see how Sherlock responded.

**Sent / 12:07  
** That’s all very interesting

**Sent / 12:07  
** Are you okay?

**Received / 12:07  
** John! Hello! I’m glorious. How are you?

Shit. This was not Sherlock. John slid out of bed and headed for the sitting room so he could call Sherlock without waking Mary.

It rang only once. “John.”

John’s eyes closed briefly from hearing his name rumbled in Sherlock’s low voice. Every time he went more than a few days without hearing it, it made his heart beat faster when he heard it again. It always had, much as he’d tried to ignore it. Hearing it the first time after Sherlock’s return had about killed him.

“Sherlock. You okay?”

“‘Course. Said I was glorious, didn’t I? Don’t make me repeat myself.” Sherlock’s voice was low and relaxed. Too relaxed.

“Yeah, exactly. The only time you’re glorious is when you’ve got a good case on. But when that’s happening, you’re excited and you talk too fast. But you don’t sound excited.” He took a deep breath. “Are you high, Sherlock?” He hurried toward the front door, shoving his feet into his shoes and grabbing his coat and keys. He needed to get to Sherlock _now_. Why had he not tried harder to get in touch? Why had he waited for Sherlock to make the first move?

“Hmmm. I do feel a little floaty, but it’s perfectly fine. I’m fine.”

Shit. Double shit. John scrambled into his car. At this time of night, it would be the fastest way to get to Baker Street. He put the phone on speaker so he could keep Sherlock on the line while he drove.

“Sherlock. I’m coming over okay?”

“You’re coming home? Good. I’ve missed you.”

John tightened his hands on the steering wheel and tried not to speed too much, worry roiling in his stomach. He was glad Sherlock had missed him, he’d missed Sherlock too. But Sherlock admitting it? Not good.

“Sherlock. What did you take? How much have you taken?”

“Oh, John. Don’t worry. I’m a graduate chemist. I know what I’m doing. It’s for a case you know. I’m glad you’re coming home. I want to tell you all about it.”

But instead of waiting for John to arrive, Sherlock explained it all, in a very confusing manner, right there on the phone. Something about that Magnusson fellow—the newspaper mogul—and blackmail. Janine, Mary’s friend, was involved somehow, though John didn’t understand that bit at all. Or maybe she wasn’t involved. Maybe they were friends now. She and Sherlock had been far too chummy at the wedding, in John’s opinion.

By the time John arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock was talking about penguins again, and John was trying not to have a panic attack. Luck was on his side, and he found a close parking spot on the street and hurried to the flat. He let himself in the street door, then rushed up the stairs as quietly as possible to avoid waking Mrs. Hudson. The door to the flat was cracked, and John pushed it all the way open and practically felt through in his haste to get to Sherlock. The buzz of adrenaline calmed him, and he looked around the sitting room, taking everything in.

It was much as it had been when he’d last seen it, piles of books and newspapers crowding all available surface and, a few teacups scattered around. The only thing missing was the wedding planning wall tacked above the sofa, which Sherlock had likely taken down as soon as it became unnecessary. On the sofa lay Sherlock, his laptop and mobile sharing space on his chest. John had hung up when he arrived at Baker Street, but Sherlock had apparently not noticed, as he was still talking about penguins.

“Sherlock?” John shut the door behind him and came to sit on the coffee table in front of his friend.

“John!” A soft, warm smile lit Sherlock’s face, causing John’s heart to race just a bit more. He’d missed that smile. It had been rare ever since Sherlock’s return. “Wait. How can you be here? You’re on the phone.”

Jesus. How far gone was Sherlock? John took his pulse while answering. “I’m not on the phone. I’m here now.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s brow crinkled in confusion. “Then who am I talking to?” He held up his phone and stared at it.

“No one. I hung up when I got here. Can you sit up for me?” John removed the laptop from Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock sat up slowly while John pulled out the pen light attached to his keys. “I’m going to look at your eyes, okay? It’s going to be bright.”

“Why? Your eyes are prettier. You should look at those instead.”

A breath caught in John’s throat, but he forced himself to ignore the words. Sherlock was just saying random stuff because he was off his tits. It meant nothing. Sure enough, Sherlock’s speech continued on about eye color and what caused it.

John finished his examination, then put a hand to Sherlock’s arm to stop the rambling. “Sherlock.” He waited for his friend to focus (sort of) on him before continuing. “What did you take and how much?”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted away from John’s face. He looked sort of thoughtful. Had he even heard the question?

“Hey. No. Look at me.” John squeezed Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock’s face scrunched up. “I’m always looking at you, John,” he said petulantly. “You’re the one who doesn’t look at me.” He shook John’s hand off, then started rooting through his dressing gown pockets. Coming up empty, he continued to his trouser pockets, his eyes lighting up when he found what he was looking for. He produced a crumpled piece of paper with a flourish.

John took the proffered paper curiously. It just said _heroin_ in Sherlock’s messy scrawl. “What is this?” Well, he knew what it was, but he didn’t understand why Sherlock had written it down instead of just telling him.

“The List,” Sherlock said dramatically, twirling a hand in the air before slumping back against the couch with a smile.

“The List?”

“Yes. Mycroft requires a list of everything I’ve taken. It’s not really a list this time, because there’s only one thing on it, but I’ve found it easier to write things down as I take them, so I don’t forget. Mycroft gets so cross when The List isn’t complete.” His face was pained, much as it often was when he talked about his brother.

“Ah. And how much did you take? When did you take it?” John dropped the paper so he could push up the sleeves of Sherlock’s gown. Both arms were clean.

“Ingested. One pill. Just needed to… relax a little.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Are you sure you just took one? You’re pretty…loopy.”

“Mmm. Maybe more than one? I don’t remember. My tolerance is pretty low now though. Wouldn’t take much. It’s been…years.”

John was glad to hear that at least. Sherlock hadn’t talked about his time away. He knew things had been…not good, but apparently they hadn’t involved drugs. “Good. That’s good.”

“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to, but I need to. It’s for a case, y’know.”

“So you said. Why do you need to be on drugs for a case? Something about blackmail, right?”

“Mmm. Decided to kill two birds with one stone. I needed to forget for a while, then I thought that it would be a good way to get Magnusson’s attention. Couldn’t just go out to a drug den straight off though. Got to build up a tolerance, as you can see.” He gestured lazily to himself. “Start here, then work up to the drug den. Got to keep my wits about me.” He nodded solemnly.

“I can see that.” Something Sherlock said caught in John’s brain. “What did you need to forget?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock pulled his feet up and curled into himself on the couch.

“You said you needed to forget. What did you need to forget?” John wondered if this had to do with Sherlock’s time away. He’d seemed fairly normal on his return, but perhaps the reason Sherlock had dived so deep into wedding planning was to help him forget, and now he didn’t have that anymore, so he’d turned to drugs.

“Oh. Yes. Mmm. My brain thinks a lot. Sometimes I need it to stop. But you weren’t here. You’d think I’d be used to that by now, but I’m not. Or perhaps it’s knowing you’re close by, but out of reach. Or maybe it’s that while I was away, I needed to remember. But I’m here now, and there’s Mary and a baby, so I needed to forget.”

John was getting an inkling of what Sherlock meant, scattered as the conversation was. His heartbeat ticked up, and he took slow breaths to calm himself. No, his brain was making silly inferences. Sherlock only meant that he needed an accountability partner. John had been that, for a while. That’s all it was. Sherlock needing a friend. Nothing more. He pushed away echoes of the best man speech. _John Watson, you keep me right._

“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come…”

“I’m an adult, John. I can’t come running to you with every little problem, when you’ve got your own responsibilities to see to.”

“I’m your best friend, Sherlock. I’m here for you–”

“No, you’re not! You married Mary. You’re there for her and for the baby. If you wanted to be here for me, you shouldn’t have marri–” Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he cut himself off. His face closed off. He flipped himself to face the back of the sofa. “Please leave, John. I’ll be fine once I sleep this off. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

John’s fists were clenched, his breathing had sped up. God. Why was this happening now? John had prayed for something to happen before, for there to be a reason to call off the engagement, to stop this snowball from growing out of his control. Mary had been good for John at the beginning. She’d been a kind ear, a drinking partner, a friend. She was funny and intelligent. Without Sherlock to keep him occupied, John thought marriage was a good idea, a way to give him stability. And he wasn’t getting any younger. Mary seemed like a good choice. At least she wasn’t boring.

And John needed to grow up. Blogging about adventures with a man who was too stubborn to put on clothes to visit the palace was fine in your thirties. Probably less acceptable when you hit forty. So despite wanting to be around Sherlock always, John let himself be pulled along by wedding planning and couples’ parties and an office job, even though he’d never been more bored in his life.

But one word from Sherlock—a _single hint_ that he wanted John at his side—and John would’ve called an end to it. Because he was a fucking sucker for danger. And for Sherlock. But Sherlock seemed happy for John. He even liked Mary, and she him. Perhaps Sherlock had decided to grow up as well.

At least, that’s what John had thought. But then Sherlock had given his best man speech, and now he was saying these things that sounded like regret and accusation. Things that didn’t admit to anything, but that nevertheless hinted at something deeper, something John had fervently wished for for months. Could Sherlock be wishing for the same things John wanted? Could they both have been waiting for the other to step forward and say something?

John laughed to himself. Leave it to them, men of action, to huddle cowardly in the corner, waiting for the other to make a move.

“Why are you still here? I said leave.” Sherlock sounded miserable, even filtered through the sofa cushions.

God how John had missed this. Why had he thought Mary could replace it? John needed unpredictability and danger. He needed to be woken up in the middle of the night for a petulant detective. He needed to be pulled out of work to go search a flat for clues. He needed Sherlock. He’d wished for him during those two years apart, but when Sherlock came back, John hadn’t allowed himself to have what he wanted. But he was done being angry about Sherlock’s deception. He was a fucking idiot, but he was John’s fucking idiot. And John was Sherlock’s. At least, he wanted to be. So John took a deep breath and made himself take the first step forward.

“I’m done leaving you. If you’re done leaving me.”

Sherlock’s body froze, then his shoulders shuddered. After a few moments, he said, so quietly John had to strain to hear him, “I needed you, and you weren’t here.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But I’m here now. We both did stupid things. I want to stop. Do you?”

Sherlock turned over slowly. His eyes were rimmed red, his face tense and pained. He gave a slow, single nod. John let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Good. Get some sleep, so I can yell at you in the morning.” Now was not a time to have a heart to heart. They needed to be sober and completely awake for that.

“You’re staying?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide. With hope?

“I meant it. If you’re done leaving me, I’m done leaving you.”

“But Mary…”

John shook his head. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, then settled back into the sofa. “Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So it's not quite a one-shot. But close...

“John?”

John turned off the hob, where he’d just finished cooking eggs and beans, and peeked into the sitting room. Sherlock was sat up, blinking blearily and rubbing at his face. His hair was smashed flat where he’d slept on it, and he looked…endearing. John smiled.

“Hey. How are you feeling?”

“It wasn’t a dream?”

“Depends on what you remember. If I was doing something completely out of character, like tap dancing, it was probably a dream.” He tried for a joking smile. Not sure he succeeded.

Why did it seem like it had been so long since they’d been silly with each other? They’d talked about lots of inconsequential things after Sherlock had returned—avoiding things that really needed to be said—but there had always been a tenseness to it, not letting themselves truly relax unless they were in the middle of one of the rare cases they went on together. Maybe they needed the shared living space to be themselves around each other. John came round to Baker Street as often as he could without making himself feel guilty for abandoning Mary, but the space wasn’t his then, even though it looked much the same as it used to. He had a separate space, him and Mary. But this morning felt different. No, it felt comfortable, right. It felt like it used to—him puttering around, tidying and throwing together breakfast while Sherlock kipped on the sofa after a late night.

Sherlock looked around the room, his face soft with something—nostalgia? Was he thinking the same as John? Did this feel right to him as well? John was anxious after deciding last night to stay, to finally have this talk that was far, far overdue. What if he was imagining things? What if he had just hoped so hard that he was putting feelings on Sherlock that didn’t exist? But John squared his shoulders like the good soldier he was. It needed to be said, even if Sherlock didn’t feel the same. It needed to be said so that John would know for sure. Then, if he was alone in his feelings, he’d go back to Mary and learn to be content with his new life. If he wasn’t alone… Well, John wasn’t letting himself hope just yet.

Sherlock hummed. “We talked. I’d say that’s pretty uncommon for us.”

John smiled bitterly. “True. But it happened, all the same. Eggs are ready. Come and eat with me?” He nodded to the sitting room table, which he’d cleared of detritus while he waited for Sherlock to wake up.

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up. “Am I to benefit from the full Watson breakfast? Did I sleep through the day?”

John narrowed his eyes playfully. “Just because my cooking skills are so pitiful that I usually end up making breakfast for dinner, doesn’t mean I can’t cook it during the right time of day.”

Sherlock smirked, then furrowed his brow. Was he too realizing how long it had been since they’d teased each other? Everything felt too long in coming, off balance. But maybe, just maybe, they could get back to where they needed to be. Soon.

“Git. Go sit down.” John turned to dish up breakfast. He heard Sherlock continue through the kitchen. “Sherlock?”

“Loo,” he tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the hall beyond.

Panic had John hurrying after Sherlock, pulling his wrist gently to stop him and turn him around.

Sherlock frowned in confusion, then widened his eyes. “Just the toilet. Promise.” He smiled sadly.

John searched his friend’s face. It was hard to be sure—addicts were adept liars, Sherlock more than most—but his expression seemed open and clear. “Tell me last night was a one off. Tell me you won’t take anything else.”

“The case–”

“That is complete shite, Sherlock. Tell me this won’t happen again.” He put as much steel into his tone as he could, pairing it with a stern look.

Stubbornness gathered in the creases of Sherlock’s face, and John prepared himself to argue, but then Sherlock’s expression cleared. He looked down to where John stilled loosely held his wrist, and he nodded. “I think so.”

John nodded and let go of Sherlock. “Hurry back. Food’ll get cold.”

Sherlock searched his face, eyes darting back and forth. Apparently content with what he saw, he gave a small smile. “I will.”

He was back in the kitchen in the time it took John to dish up breakfast, and John turned away from the stove just in time to hand Sherlock his plate.

They tucked into the food, not talking for a while. It felt comfortable, like it used to. All they needed was Mrs. Hudson hovering over them with a pot of tea and an exasperated but fond smile, and it would be like Sherlock had never left, like John had never got married, like everything was right with the world.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally said when half of his plate was empty. He twirled his fork, a single tine balanced on the plate as he spun it. “I shouldn’t have got you out of bed just so I could ramble stupidly, high as a kite.”

John put down his fork. “No. You did exactly what you should have—well, no, you should’ve called _before_ you took the drugs. But I’m glad you got in touch. It’s what I’m here for.”

“No, it’s not.” Sherlock argued. “You have other responsibilities now. You have a family–”

“You’re my family too, Sherlock. I’m your best friend. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“I don’t want to be your job!” Sherlock’s voice was high and desperate, surprising John with its vehemence. “I don’t want to be an obligation that you fulfill so you can feel good about yourself.”

“That’s not–”

“It may not be what you think it is, but your actions say otherwise. You _chose her_. You chose marriage. That is you saying she is the most important person in your life, that she’s your number one priority because of love. And that’s fine, if you really love her. But you can’t make that choice, then hope that things between us will stay the same. It doesn’t work like that. I might be your best friend, but she’s your wife. Your marriage was a declaration, a promise.”

“It– it was an accident!” John shut his mouth with a snap. Fuck.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “What? You just accidentally picked out a ring? Accidentally asked her to marry you? You accidentally chose colors and cakes and flowers? You accidentally walked down a church aisle and promised your life to someone?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean–” John took a deep breath. This was not coming out like he hoped. He was flustered and confused and a little hopeful. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked at Sherlock. His brows were lowered, his mouth in a small frown. He looked…small.

“I thought…Mary was good for me, after your…not death. And she’s funny and smart, and I thought it could work. It was all I could ask for…considering the circumstances.” Sherlock’s frown deepened. John powered on. “But then you changed those circumstances by coming back. But then I was angry, and Mary was expecting a proposal, and you seemed to be okay with that, so I…” He trailed, unsure how to continue

“Forward momentum,” Sherlock said grimly.

“Yeah,” John agreed quietly, playing with his fork and not looking at his friend. “If there had been anything to stop that, I would have…”

There was silence for almost a minute.

“But I came back.” The words were small, and John finally looked up at Sherlock. His eyes were wide, but hurt. “That should have stopped you.”

“But you left me first.” Saying those words made John feel stripped, vulnerable. His stomach clenched, and his heart beat loud in his ears and in his chest. The only thing keeping him from doing a runner was Sherlock’s own raw expression. That and the memory of the best man speech. Sherlock _loved_ John. For some reason, he thought the world of him. That speech had been the beginning. It was the first building block to renewing the trust John once had in Sherlock. But John had to do some of the work too.

“But I want to trust you again. So I’m done. I’m done leaving. I’m done being angry and hurt. I’m done pretending I want less than I actually do. If– if you–” John took a deep breath. “Tell me that’s what you want, and I’ll stay.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip trembled. He looked down into his teacup as if it would tell him how to respond. “I needed you. Last night…” He trailed off and bit his lip, still staring into his tea.

“And I came. I said it once. Just one word. That’s all I need.”

Sherlock looked up then, his eyes red and glistening. “Stay.”

John let out a breath. He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me wanted to keep going, but so many of my stories go from little one-shots to 15K fics, so I decided to leave this is as. Though there are no love declarations or vows made, my idea is that they're together from here on out, just taking it very slowly while they heal.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumbler [@vateacancameos](http://vateacancameos.tumblr.com/).


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